Burned
by x Tessla x
Summary: Ryan Evan's life has burnt him, deep and dark, and as he explains it, there are no conclusions to end what he feels. A Sad fic.


**AN: **I'll keep this really short. This is my first HSM centered fiction. It's about Ryan Evans and a day in his life. Please review (good or bad). I don't own HSM.

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Part I. **When I Write, I write to let it all out.**

I used to love the clicking of keys as I moved my fingers over the keyboard. The soft soothing sound of letting out the emotions I had built up day after day, night after night. The smooth feeling of plastic and the warmth of the high backed leather chair I always sat in. Just the right things to make me feel warm and comfortable.

It's weird that as I sit here now, the release just doesn't seem as strong. I guess my emotions are getting the better of me. They're playing again, making me feel manic, making me feel so high and mighty. Deep down, I know that when I fall, I'll crash back into that state of blue. For now, I think I'll float.

I don't understand what I'm meant to be, where I'm going, or what real life is about. I see all the crazy shit when I peer out from under my flashy hat. I see the horrors when I walk through my front door and into the eternal abuse of what my family has become. When I walk beside Sharpay, I feel it. I feel all the stares focusing on her instead of me and I get jealous.

More jealous than a brother should get.

I think.

Maybe that's my problem. I think too much. But then again, perhaps not. I let her dress me up in these flashy clothes, never thinking anything of it. Never once thinking I should tell her to stop. Never once do I tell her I want to stop looking like some dress up doll. I should, but I don't.

I know what they say about me at school, I know what they call me when I turn my back. I hear the whispers just like everybody else. It isn't hard to realize nobody likes you, at least it wasn't hard for me. They call me a fag and imitate me like I'm so ditzy cheerleader. I'm neither.

At Least I don't think I am.

Am I really what they call me, what they beat me up for? Is it a matter of choice or a matter of environment? Everyone keeps saying I'm gay, so does that make me? No, I don't think so. But I don't think remember.

When everyone stares at Sharpay, I feel like screaming, "Hey, It's me RYAN. LOOK at me!" but I don't. If I do, Sharpay will get mad at me. I know she will. She'll say, "Ryan, stop it right now and go fetch me an Evian water."

The saddest part is

I'll do it.

I'd do anything for her. Maybe that's my problem, one of my many problems. And when I walk through that door into East, I never feel anything but unease. No matter who tries to talk to me, to smile at me, to pretend like they care. But I'm Ryan Evans, the squishy little poodle. The gay boy. The drama King. The Idiot. The Dancer.

**II. When I dance, I dance to show.**

Dance is my life, that along with school and Vocal lessons and my sister. But still, the only thing in my life I can really control is Dance. Everything else is something of a blur. My parents make me go to school, not that they really could give a damn about me. My sister makes me into a pet. My parents AND my sister make me go to Voice. None of it is my choosing, except dance.

I can dance to hip hop; move to the beat quickly, getting into rhythm. It's all fast, like a blur of colors mixing together, or some weird science experiment going wrong. I can't explain the feeling, the freeness I feel. Even if I could, no one would understand.

Then I can do ballet, something to sooth me when my writing seems to dry up. I don't really need to think about that, it just comes naturally. A slow pace of spinning and swirling, leaps and battements. It's all so peaceful, almost magical. Even better, Shar hates this dance style. It's my own thing. My very own.

But there are times when I want Shar around, when I need the comfort of a twin. When this happens, I turn to ballroom. It takes two to twirl fabulously around the room. It takes precision to be as graceful as possible, as liquid and light. It takes timing to match steps, to watch out for your partner's feet. It all takes time.

Dancing is what I do

For Fun.

But when they look at me, it reminds them I'm just a flighty boy with vibrant colors and a knack for matching. They laugh at me and when they laugh. I want to curl up in a ball. Sharpay will come soon after, I can always count on her. She helps me heal.

It is a double sided sword as they say.

But I do it anyway.

**III. There's definitely no place like home.**

When I enter the door, when I enter the home away the nightmares and the ill gotten fame, I can hear the shouts. If it's not shouting, then it's quiet. Dead quiet, almost like a morgue, but not really because the heat's on and my heat's beating so fast.

There are two things about silence that scare me more than the yelling. The yelling I can take. It's the eerie silence of disappointment that I can't deal with. The fact that you're no good, but the other party figures you know it already and doesn't have to tell you. It feels as if they're watching me, waiting for me to screw up again. Then they'll yell at me.

Until then, I'll get cold looks and glassy stares. No kisses for dancing Ryan because they don't approve. They want a son. Not some metrosexual freak or whatever label the world has put on me today. Dad wants a basketball player; should have asked God for Troy. Mom wants a genius. Why aren't A's and B's acceptable and why is the occasional C the end of the world?

But even still, the yelling is a part of my family and when they yell at each other, it is well known that they'll start yelling at me or Shar. I hate it when they yell at her, but they don't really do it so much anymore. It's me they yell at. It's me they hate. I'm the disgrace to the family. I'm the one who should be punished.

And I am.

Repeatedly.

It's a wonder I can hide it anymore. It's a wonder I can even show my face in school without someone asking why I'm black and blue. It's more green and purple by the time I can take a good look at it, because in that time I've made a soft yelp, a cry, a shout, anything to show weakness. In my position as the gay boy, weakness just makes you even more despicable.

So I steal some of Shar's foundation and it does wonders, but when the tears come and don't stop, the fake skin is washed away and I'm revealed to everyone. I'm Open.

And I hate it.

But no one really needs to know that. I don't think.

I guess that

There are no conclusions.

No resolutions.

Nothing I can do.

But Wake every morning

Open my mouth.

And Sing.

So Loud

To cover the shaky feelings

I get inside.


End file.
